


Squaddies

by Slyboots



Series: Partners [2]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Background Slash, Dark Comedy, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gen, Heavy Drinking, Male Bonding, Military Science Fiction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:28:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22408702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots
Summary: “The mighty Menasor.” Wildrider pulled a grimace. “Makes me wanna purge. Like he’s in there in my brainpan with me.”The Stunticons are not model soldiers.
Relationships: Breakdown & Drag Strip, Breakdown/Knock Out
Series: Partners [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577944
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Squaddies

**Author's Note:**

> This one's a two-parter. Playing around trying to adapt the Stunticons for Prime’s darker tone. Can be read without Gestalt. As usual, Breakdown is a fusion of G1, IDW, and Prime. Drag Strip owes a bit to Robots in Disguise.
> 
> Chapter titles are a wink to the best-known English rendering of the Threepenny Opera, which I had on a loop while writing this.

“We detected some anomalies in your preliminary scans.”

As one their optics flickered to Motormaster. He grunted, shrugging off the medic’s hand. “Looks like it ain’t your lucky solar cycle, Breakdown. What’s it gonna be this time, your crippled aft or your cracked brainpan?”

They drew away. Breakdown stood in a widening circle, venting great gouts of steam, feeling his coolant trickle from a thousand leaks. From the exertion of combat his faceplate was burning--now shame roiled up in him, shame made acrid by adrenaline--

It was always him, always--

“Yessir. Probably both, sir. Go ahead without me.”

They’d ground-bridged back from Tyrest not breems before, choking on the stench of slagged bombers and half-melted tanks.  _ A precaution _ , the clerk manning the groundbridge had said, waving them into the curtained-off medbay.  _ Just a precaution-- _

Shoulder-to-shoulder they stood. There was nowhere else to stand.

“See you in the scrapyard, Breakdown.” Drag Strip cackled. A joor earlier he’d saved Drag Strip’s life. “Hey, can we get a  _ real _ Velocitronian next time, boss? This one’s defective--”

The medic cut off Breakdown’s snarled retort. Outside, someone was shouting; someone’s indicators flashed, a ghostly sulfur-yellow, through the thin curtain. “Corporal Dead End. We detected an anomaly in your systems as well. We’ll require an Energon sample.”

As one, as though some fragment of Menasor animated them still, they drew away again. Dead End, now, stood alone in a widening circle. Even Breakdown stepped back, automatic as shifting gears.

Dead End raised his arm, pulling back his plate to expose a gleaming fuel line:  _ come get it _ .

Motormaster vented silvery smog, making them all wince. “Looks like Breakdown’s rubbing off on you, Dead End. Knew you weren’t right. Standing around primping and polishing your fender--shoulda slagged you myself--”

And that was the genius of it, Motormaster’s charisma: in that klik Breakdown hated Dead End, too, wondered _ how _ he could’ve been so slow, so stupid--

“You two glitches stay behind. Rest of you, I don’t give a frag what you do. Celebrate. Your dirty afts ain’t dead yet. Report back at 0200.”

One by one they saluted, grudgingly.

“Not in a talkative mood, huh?”

The medics’ servos whirred. Mini-Con nurses rolled through the medbay, beeping in some shorthand Breakdown couldn’t parse.

From his subspace Dead End produced a cheap datapad, its screen dented.

He’d been talkative enough when they’d met, in the first confused days of the war. His snotty manner had grated on Breakdown’s fiber optics--

Yet his silence was worse. Into the void it left, Breakdown’s own thoughts rushed, a hot roar of twisting metal, of the screams of mechs melting into slag.

“Suits me,” Breakdown lied, leaning back. They’d fed an auto-diagnostic program into his system, promising (glibly, he’d thought) it would decay to nothing in a joor. Data flashed across his HUD too quickly to parse.

Two breems earlier he’d been synchronized with Dead End. Now he reached for him mentally and found cold static. Dead End’s servos clacked on the datapad, tapping out some rambling poem.

“You gotta show me what you’re writing sometime.” It was easier to run his synthesizer, to pull his mind from the tingle of the auto-diagnostic. “Don’t know if I’d get it.” A weak laugh. “Might, though. You know Megatron used to--”

“Do you need a sedative?” drawled Dead End, and Breakdown subsided. The loudspeakers cackled, spitting the names of Decepticon infantry slagged in some distant sector of Cybertron. From the battle they’d just left, perhaps--

Drag Strip pinged him. There was a shock; numbly Breakdown accepted.

“Hey, ol’ buddy.” Drag Strip had been drinking. In the background, a silvery-voiced mech giggled. “You said the Velocitronians got a word for  _ interface port _ ? Not regular Neocybex?”

Breakdown groaned. He could already smell the cheap smuggled Engex on Drag Strip. Yet there was no point arguing. “Jack.”

“Thanks,  _ pal _ . Hey, Stoplight, sweet thing, show me your--”

Breakdown terminated the connection as the medic returned.

“We all cope somehow,” observed Dead End tonelessly. “We’re facing down obsolescence. You might as well drink.”

“Reassuring,” muttered Breakdown, extending an arm for an Energon sample. His mesh itched, swarming with repair nanites; he’d strained a piston in the last skirmish. “You oughtta make propvids.”

Dead End’s face tightened behind his gleaming mouthplate. “Do you expect to survive this war?”

Breakdown paused, and cursed himself for it. It was all the answer Dead End needed.

Too late, Breakdown added, “Doesn’t matter, right? Just gotta do your job.”

“Whatever gets you through the shift.” With a sniff Dead End returned to his datapad.

Kaon had been a teeming hive before the war; now it was chaos. Pollution from the incessant construction had soured the sky, and smog coated them all in a thin layer of soot that wouldn’t polish off. Breakdown elbowed through the crowds, his squad insignia bright on his dingy chestplate; a few recognized it, falling back with a hush.

_ Just a klik of peace and quiet _ \-- _ maybe a couple cubes of Paint Stripper--a drink with Crumplezone in the Little Colonies-- _

Though he’d muted the public channels, his processor still fizzed with hashed signals:  _ assume aerial pattern Black Alpha--Astrotrain, cleared for landing at Kaon Airstrip L-14-- _

“Corporal!” A femme melted from the crowd, grabbing his arm. “I saw you on the propreel--you’re one of the Stunticons--”

“Uh, yeah.” He shrugged her off, carefully as he could manage. The crowd pressed in again, pinning his free arm at his side.

_ Motormaster woulda thrown her off--ripped her skinny arm right outta the socket-- _

But he wasn’t Motormaster. So easy to forget, in the nauseous joors after decombining.

“Whyn’cha come back to the Jump Joint with me, Corporal,” wheedled the femme, stroking his pauldron from behind. No matter how he turned he could scarcely see her, so small in the crush of the crowd. Yet her exhaust was hot on his arm. “Come back and pick my locks--I’ve got spare ration cubes--”

“I’m Conjugated,” he muttered. “Just lemme go--”

_ \--Constructicons, report to the ground bridge for immediate deployment-- _

_ \--just a klik of peace and quiet _ \--

“So’m I, soldier boy. Trannis sent my conjunx into Lower Tesarus.” Her faceplate was chipped, her lip-lacquer faded. As he shoved forward she almost kept pace with him. “The Autobots ground her into scrap metal, soldier boy--”

“Sorry to hear that.” Breakdown gritted his dentae. The crowd was drawing in, whispering. Their reek scorched his sensors, clung to his paint. At the corner, two Seekers were cackling, pointing. Breakdown’s fists curled; his hand ached. It would be so easy to bring the hammer down. “Lady, I’m not--”

“You better mind your manners, Sprocket.” He heard Wildrider before he saw him; he exploded from the crowd, stinking of purged Energon and burnt rubber, and snatched at the femme’s shoulder. “Breakdown’s a real  _ psycho _ . He’ll smash your nasty port into slag--”

_ \--forget it _ , brayed the public channel, leaking through into Breakdown’s commlink.  _ Everyone knows the Stunticons ain’t right _ \-- _ Shockwave burned their neural nets out-- _

Sprocket startled, and Breakdown yanked his arm free. Too roughly--she stumbled back with a yelp, falling into Wildrider’s arms.

_ Scrap _ .

“--whaddaya say, Breakdown? Wanna show Sprocket what we did to Superion?” Wildrider’s optics gleamed through the smog. “Just a grab and a li’l  _ twist _ \--” Under his fingers Sprocket screeched, thrashing as if to transform--yet he was faster, stronger, grabbing her wrist as her hand collapsed into whirring plates.

“Sounds great.” Breakdown whirled, rounding on Wildrider. “How ‘bout I try it on you?”

Two joors earlier he’d been synchronized with Wildrider, feeling his mind rattle and squirm, feeling a sick wave of glee at every crunch beneath Menasor’s heels. Feeling Wildrider’s thoughts race in endless circles, feeling the screeching pressure build in his brainpan--

And how sweet, to have a target for his rage.

The crowd drew back in a widening circle. Sprocket’s optics brightened with terror or disgust. “ _ Primus _ \--I didn’t mean anything--”

In onlookers’ armor he saw his crooked grin reflected. The Seeker twins nudged each other, whispering; pings to the infantry patrols rushed like a wave of static through the crowd.

Breakdown raised his hammer. Wildrider backed up one step, then another, his faceplate frozen in a rictus, holding Sprocket to his chest.

For an instant a wild, soaring joy ripped through Breakdown. For the first time that night his throbbing anxiety leaked away. This was  _ right _ . This was easy.

“You wanna do this, Wildrider?” He drew himself up to his full height; the crowd melted back further, whispering and hissing.

“Yeah,” panted Wildrider. “C’mon. Yeah, I’m ready to go.” On the last word his synthesizer stuttered.

_ Ready to go _ .

It struck a painful chord. He’d been a klik from battering his own squadmate. Still he could sense Wildrider’s Spark, crackling with charge.

They’d all been pent-up since decombining. Spoiling for a fight. Breakdown’s free hand flexed. Some dull beaten-down part of him reasserted itself.

“Aw, you’re not worth flattening,” he growled through clenched dentae. “C’mon. Let’s go get a drink.”

It felt like surrender, and he held his hammer at the ready--

\--but Wildrider’s shoulders sagged. Spitting on Sprocket’s plating, he released her; without a backward glance she scurried off.

The crowd vented collectively, turning away, their optics’ glow dying off. The empty circle collapsed, the rabble of Kaon flooding back.

“Yeah. Yeah, a drink. C’mon.” Wildrider shifted from heel to heel, armor rattling as he bounced. “You’re  _ certifiable _ , Breakdown. Fragged hard drive or, or something.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

From the Jump Joint they wandered to the Oil Rig, cursing and scrap-talking. From there to Drag Strip’s private room in the Little Colonies district--

\--and that felt wrong, too, as if Drag Strip and Wildrider were reaching inside his Spark chamber and groping for something private.

He’d never spoken of Velocitron unprompted. For vorns he’d been content to forget the roar of the racetrack, the dizzying heat and searing cold, the breakneck flicker of headlight-code--

But there were no secrets among combiners. Draped across two giggling Velocitronians Drag Strip caught Breakdown’s optics. “Hey, buddy. Show me some headlights.”

“Look at the size of him!” gasped one of Drag Strip’s companions. “ _ He _ can’t be--”

“It’s a crazy world, Stoplight.” Drag Strip downed something foul and sweet. “How d’you say my name?”

Breakdown avoided their optics, staring into his own Engex. “Bust somebody else’s bearings, Drag Strip. I’m not in the mood.” It sounded weak in his own audials. He bristled. “Don’t wanna have to bust yours back.”

Wildrider cackled, a touch uncertainly. “He’s tanked. Look at him. Poor slob don’t remember how to--”

That did it.

“You can’t say names like that.” Breakdown rubbed his temples. He was, in truth, tanked; he’d poured half the quartex’s pay down his intake valve. “Doesn’t work that way. Closest I could get is--uh--” He stifled a belch. Shifted his bulk, showing off his hips; with crackling speed, his lights flickered.

“Never seen him move that fast.” Drag Strip’s brows arched. “What’s it mean?”

A pleasure, to know something Drag Strip did not--but a pleasure shot through with a sudden longing.  _ Can’t go home again _ . Breakdown sipped his Engex.

Drag Strip’s cockiness, Dead End’s preening, the Velocitronians’ mannerisms stirred something uneasy in him. Too like Knock Out, and yet so unlike him--

Better not to think of Knock Out, so far away from smog-choked Kaon. Better not to think of Knock Out, not when Breakdown’s processor swam with Engex and his tanks roiled with rage, when Menasor’s bellows were so fresh in his raw synthesizer--

But maybe Knock Out would’ve been proud of what Breakdown had become.

Stoplight snickered, nudging the other Velocitronian. “Guess he is the real thing. Thick-rims told you to suck on his tailpipe.”

Wildrider screamed with laughter. Drag Strip scowled. “Funny mech.”

“How about you, speedster?” The other Velocitronian still spoke with a sharp accent, her words tumbling out and colliding. Absently she stroked Drag Strip’s thigh. “You aren’t Kaonian.”

His pique forgotten, Drag Strip smirked broadly. “You’re right about that. I left Nova Cronum young for the Iaconian racing circuit--”

“Nova Cronum?” Stoplight rubbed his chin. “Isn’t that a Loyalist--”

“Please,” rasped Wildrider. “The term is  _ bootlicker _ . They got their faces pressed right up to Zeta Prime’s exhaust port. Every morning they take a big ol’ whiff--”

“What were you, motormouth? Before the war.” Stoplight rubbed Drag Strip’s shoulders, his gaze wandering drunkenly.

Perhaps it was the Engex--but it was impossible to imagine Wildrider in peacetime. Impossible, too, to guess his age, so dented was his frame. He might have been Sparked into war, or driven mad by battle, his old programming erased in some massive data fault--

“Nunya.” Wildrider drained his Engex. Smacked his lips.

“Hey--” Drag Strip blinked. He’d been rattling off his own history, unattended by all of them. “Come to think of it. You boys were nobodies. Sarge Smogbreath was a jumped-up delivery boy. Dead End--”

“--some kinda hired gun, I guess.” Breakdown turned it over in his aching processor. “Don’t really know. Sounds educated, though.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he does.” Drag Strip’s brow furrowed. “Weird.”

It was the most Drag Strip had said about anyone but Drag Strip in solar cycles.

“Doesn’t matter, does it?” Wildrider’s fingers rattled on the bar. Even squiffy he was constantly moving. “We’re all just a buncha psycho killers now--”

“Speak for yourself,” snapped Drag Strip. 

Remembering Knock Out, Breakdown muttered something none of them heard. A klik later it’d fled from his processor.

“ _ The mighty Menasor _ .” Wildrider pulled a grimace. “Makes me wanna purge. Like he’s in there in my brainpan with me.”

It was too intimate. Uncomfortably the Velocitronians tittered. Stoplight rose, shrugging off Drag Strip. “I’ll--uh--I’ll go get another round.”

Breakdown, who’d been about to offer, sank back onto his stool. Wildrider rounded on him, sucking air, his fans whirring. “Don’t gimme that slag. You’re crazy too, Breakdown. Nobody buys that nice-mech act--”

“Easy,” growled Breakdown. Their optics converged on him; even Stoplight glanced back from the door. “You wanna see how nice I am?”

He’d not yet forgotten Sprocket.

“Yeah.” Drag Strip hauled himself upright, his visor pulsing drunkenly. “Big beefy Breakdown. Why don’tcha go toe-to-toe with Sarge Motorbreath, Breakdown? You scared?”

“Look at him,” slurred Wildrider. “Twenty tons of twitchy--”

“Like the Pit.” Breakdown was on his feet, the stool knocked over. “Just because I got a little bit of respect for rank--”

“ _ Nobody _ respects rank, lunkhead,” snapped Drag Strip, his exhaust reeking of Engex. “You gonna suck up to the Autobots if they take Kaon? Maybe drool on Zeta Prime’s inductor a little?”

“--but put him in a fight and he just goes  _ wild _ \--” Wildrider’s optics rolled back. “Crazy thing is, I ain’t ever seen Breakdown  _ happy _ except when he’s cracking heads--”

And drunk or not, mad or not, Wildrider was right. Already the strange, soaring joy was seizing him.

“Yeah. You know what. I’mma start with yours.” A sick grin crept onto Breakdown’s face. “Hey, Drag Strip. Wanna bet how far I can throw his sorry aft?”

“ _ There’s _ the spirit.” Drag Strip’s visor gleamed; his fresh grin matched Breakdown’s. “That’s what I like to hear. Five shanix he won’t make it twenty kilometers.”

“Ten shanix he’ll hit the pyramid.” Breakdown cracked his knuckles, stretched his shoulders, limbering up. The ache in his hammer-arm felt distant, a memory from another life.

_ Menasor’s in there in my brainpan with me-- _

Wildrider’s voice chattered in the back of his processor. He’d have to see the medics again before their next assignment, thought Breakdown vaguely. The public channels were leaking--no, his memory banks were on the fritz--

_You’ve taken a few blows to the processor, haven’t you, Breakdown?_ Knock Out’s voice swam to the surface--from some memory, though from where he couldn’t recall. _You’re going to be nothing_ but _a brain-dead truck if this keeps up. Do try to keep a few circuits intact. I’m rather fond of you, and I don’t want to have to change your oil_ _for you._

Or perhaps he was imagining it. After vorns apart Knock Out’s voice was still vivid in his mind.

“Hey. Drunk-tank. You still with us, buddy?” Drag Strip was tapping his foot. “I wanna see Wildrider fly--”

“Yeah,” echoed Wildrider. “I wanna fly.” He giggled. “Kick my aft if you think you’re tough enough.”

Breakdown shook himself. Leaned down, his hands closing on Wildrider’s ankles. It was a klik’s effort to lift him from his seat, dangling him upside down.

He was, after all, so much bigger than Wildrider.

_ Sixteen tons of crazy _ .

The second Velocitronian edged wordlessly for the door.

“You like that?” breathed Breakdown, his exhaust condensing on Wildrider’s armor. He jiggled Wildrider up and down, savoring the rattle of his armor, the gurgle of his tanks. “You sick little glitch. Scaring that femme oilless. What were you gonna do with her, huh, Wildrider? Huh?”

Wildrider opened his mouth. Moaned, belching exhaust that reeked of Engex and purge. Closed it.

Grimly Breakdown smiled, shaking Wildrider harder. Wildrider’s bolts rattled; at any second it seemed his armor would fly apart. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You don’t even know.”

“What femme?” snapped Drag Strip, irritated at being left out. “Who? What?”

“I gotta put up with your scrap on duty.” Breakdown punctuated every word with a sharp jerk. “Off-duty? You put one wheel outta line, Wildrider, I’mma shove it so far up your tailpipe you’re gonna choke on it--”

Wildrider choked a laugh.

“Crazy recall model.” Drag Strip spat oil. “How’s a guy supposed to work with numb-nodes like these?”

Breakdown’s commlink buzzed.  _ \--reinforcements to the Outer Acid Wastes-- _

Outside the cracked window, steam hissed from broken pipes. In the street below someone was shouting--

\-- _ you think you’re tough-- _

“Throw the bootleg,” snapped Drag Strip, swaying from foot to foot, steadying himself on Stoplight’s abandoned barstool. “You scared or something?”

That did it. Breakdown’s arm jerked. Wildrider soared, limbs twitching--

Broken glass sprayed the floor.

Wildrider did not, in the end, fly all the way to the Pyramid.

Twenty-five shanix poorer apiece, unsteady on their feet, the landlady’s shrieks still echoing in their audials, they staggered from the Little Colonies. Tomorrow, Breakdown knew, he’d be furious at letting himself be goaded--

Weaving and tottering, his paint fouled with oil and grime, Wildrider shrugged off Breakdown’s proffered arm. “Aw, big bad Breakdown’s feeling guilty.”

“Not on your life,” Breakdown grunted, pulling away. “You gonna mute it?”

From the Little Colonies they stumbled through Wreckage Row, a wasteland now for vorns. Their voices echoed, cursing Motormaster and Zeta Prime and Shockwave.

\-- _ a couple kliks of peace and quiet-- _

_ \--maybe call Knock Out in Vos-- _

“It’s all a buncha scrap.” Drag Strip’s visor pulsated, unsteady. “We’re  _ Stunticons _ , right? Stunt drivers? What’s some kinda--some kinda big rig--pushing us around, right?”

“Always gonna be some bearing-buster. Bot. Con. Doesn’t matter.” Flashes of Velocitron--of sleek little Ransack, of officious Override--flickered through Breakdown’s reeling processor. “Guys like us, we’re  _ Sparked _ to eat slag--”

“Mechs like you.” Drag Strip’s voice dissolved for a klik into static. They weaved in and out of steamy darkness. “You and me, you big lug--we could take down Motormaster--”

“Like the Pit.”

Wildrider chuckled, his synthesizer rising. “ _ When Zeta says, ‘more fuel’-- _ ”

“Little guys change history.” Drag Strip rallied, catching up to Breakdown. “It ain’t gonna be those fancy-finish Seekers taking down the Dynobots or the Wreckers--”

Odd, to hear Drag Strip call himself a  _ little guy _ .

“ _ \--the miners say, ‘how much?’ When Zeta says, ‘more steel’--” _

_ \--air superiority decides wars _ , Dead End had said a thousand times.  _ We land models are on the precipice of obsolescence-- _

Wildrider’s warbling echoed through Wreckage Row. The Decepticon graffiti was bubbling and flaking from the walls now; Megatron’s loyalists had flattened this district rather than reclaim it. From shadowy alleys mechs watched with burst optics and empty sockets. But Wildrider seemed not to feel their gaze. “ _ \--the smelters say, ‘how much?’ When Zeta says, ‘more lives,’ the soldiers say--” _

_ \--do you expect to survive this war _ ?

Breakdown’s synthesizer hiccuped. Warm and nauseated his processor swam. “Dreadwing’s a good soldier. I trust his squad.”

Drag Strip slung an arm round Breakdown’s waist. “Dreadwing doesn’t give a backfire about guys like us. We gotta rely on each other, Breaks, old buddy--”

“Yeah. Sure.” An odd sentiment from Drag Strip. Breakdown shrugged off his arm.

“ _ When Shockwave says, ‘need parts,’ the surgeons say, ‘chop, chop’-- _ ”

“ _ Shockwave _ . That malfunction.” Drag Strip snapped his fingers. “I’m a racing model. I shouldn’t be linking up with  _ Motormouth _ \--”

_ I woke up, _ said a small soft part of Breakdown.  _ While Shockwave had his good arm in my engine block _ .

His synthesizer froze. Stuttered. There were things unfit for speech.

Drag Strip was lighter. Drunker. “You believe in the _Decepticon_ _cause_ , Breaks? Deep down in your Spark?”

“Does anybody?” Wildrider surfaced from whatever hazy nightmare gripped him; his faceplate contorted, red as the smelting-pits in the darkness. “There’s no  _ Decepticon cause _ , numb-nodes. There’s just Megatron blabbing about equality, and Dreadwing blabbing about honor, and us little grunts looting and shooting--”

Breakdown looked away, lost still for words.

“‘S what I thought.” Drag Strip spat, his oil gleaming like Energon in the dark. “It’s all propaganda.”

Wildrider’s optics flashed. He half-doubled over, retching again, laughing through mouthfuls of purge. “You don’t know slag about propaganda, shiny.”

“Easy now,” muttered Breakdown, offering a hand, glancing back at the bots huddled in shadow. “Get it all out. C’mon. You’re tanked, Wildrider--”

It was the decent thing to do. Kaon seemed tonight devoid of decency.

“Megatron doesn’t give a rip if we all hate his oil.” Wildrider took Breakdown’s hand, his own slick with condensate. “Next solar cycle we’re all gonna march out and die for him--”

“Don’t see you deserting.” Drag Strip stifled a belch. “Looting and shooting, right?”   
  
Wildrider grinned, purge frothy on his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I love it. We all love it.”

And then they were purging in an alley, holding each other upright--Drag Strip and Wildrider groaning under Breakdown’s weight--

They might’ve been friends, thought Breakdown, dizzied. For a klik they might’ve been friends--

Their comms buzzed as one.

“You boys get your bootleg afts back to Central,” boomed Motormaster’s voice, making them all jump. Dark transmission fluid flooded over Drag Strip’s chassis, reeking in the tight alley. “We’ve got an assignment.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter, Wildrider's troubled past, the Wreckers, ill-advised science, and more robot violence.


End file.
